Christmas Day in the Guildhall
by Danny Barefoot
Summary: An unseasonal Christmas poem for Goblinslayer and company, based on 'Christmas Day in the Workhouse'; the only possibly vehicle that could give my feeling towards this story full humorous expression. UPDATE, with a Goblin Slayer Christmas Carol!
1. The Poem

_A/N: This little poem is derived from the traditional English song 'Christmas Day in the Workhouse', as recited by Terry Wogan on youtube. The original text is given in the second chapter for comparison. The workhouse is the place in Victorian England well known from 'Oliver Twist', where paupers were confined in miserable conditions for a pittance of food. As a fellow White Male Authority Figure presiding with ghastly pomp and self-importance over a situation of terrible exploitation and suffering, Goblinslayer 'plays' the Workhouse Master; Mr Bumble in 'Oliver Twist', with Priestess taking the role of the Vicar, obviously, and the other haremites sharing the role of the Workhouse Mistress. I feel that I've made fun of the characters I like, as well as those I don't, in this poem, as well as mocking the chip on my own shoulder in the final verse. I'm expecting some heartfelt gratitude for introducing readers to this unsung treasure of British working-class humour! _

* * *

It was Christmas day in the guildhall,

With adventurers full of _cheer_.

Their faces were filled with gladness,

Their bellies were filled with _beer_.

-0-

In came the Goblinslayer,

As he strode through the draughty _halls_,

He cried, "Here's to the second season!"

And the Rookies answered...by heaving a half-brick at him!

-0-

The Slayer, he was sore outraged,

And swore "By all the _gods_,

"You'll get no Christmas pudding then,

You trio of silly _sods_!"

-0-

"If FIGHTER isn't coming back,"

Cried one man, bold as _brass_,

"Take your second season, and the pud,

"And stick them up...the far end of the table, with _Overlord_, _Shield Hero_ and the other unwanted shows!"

-0-

The Slayer rose to cleave some skulls,

But just before he _started_,

The Cow girl, grown to fifteen stone,

Gave three loud cheers and...smothered him with her chest, along with the rest of the harem!

-0-

With Phoenix Down, the Slayer arose,

And prepared to carve the _duck_.

He said, "Who wants the parson's nose?"

And Wizard answered… "In 19th century British parlance, the parson's nose is the fatty knob of meat above the bird's anus, and in this context–it could be called _Goblinslayer's_ _nose_, because you _suck_!"

-0-

Some manga and the light novels,

Went round in Christmas _parcels_, (PArr-Soles)

Some peasants tore the pages out,

And began to wipe their...eyes and noses, at the events of volume 1.

-0-

The Priestess bought a holy book,

And read out little _bits_.

Said one Swordmaiden, near the back,

"That girl gets on…very well as a main heroine, since she hasn't been raped yet."

-0-

A steaming bowl of white bread sauce,

Was handed round to _some_.

An aged gourmet called aloud,

"This bread sauce tastes like…a product of all the pointless sex fanfics round here!"

-0-

Mince pie with custard was the next,

And all received a _bit_.

A hero mused, "This pie's not bad,

"But the custard tastes… as scummy and suspect as everything else in this world, including the bread sauce from the last verse!"

-0-

All of the party then began,

To pull their Christmas _crackers_,

Dwarf Shaman held his too low down,

And blew off both his…own paper hat, and the Lizardman's _hemi-penes_–that is, the things lizards, and presumably lizardmen, have between their legs instead of KNACKERS!

-0-

"This pudding," said the Goblinslayer,

"Is solid, hard and _thick_.

"How am I going to I cut it?"

And a man called… "Use your sword! It's useless for anything else, since you didn't use it to save the Rookies!"

-0-

Elf Archer, dishing out the food,

Spilt custard down her _front_.

She said, "Aren't I a silly billy?"

And they said, "You look…"–but FIGHTER knocked them out for being rude to a lady!

-0-

With beer, the Slayer began to moan,

Of tragic family _loss_,

"I have so much trauma!" FIGHTER, though,

Did not give half a…minute before she explained that he was a Big White Male Marty Stu hero, in a light novel world where women existed to either join his worshipful harem or get raped by goblins that he could subsequently slaughter to show just what a wonderful hero he was. That his claiming, after what had happened to _her_, to be a tragic hero, or anything but a rapesploitative male power fantasy whose whole story and career was rooted in her suffering...was, frankly, offensive.

Then she drew on the power of Ki and beat Goblinslayer to death with his own helmet.

-0-

The Priestess RAISED UP Goblinslayer,

To entertain her _flock_,

He asked, "What shall I show you?"

And the harem cried…"_Promised Neverland_, a dark show with no sexual violence! Or Berserk, a dark show with no _gratuitous_ sexual violence–in fact, that isn't a gratuitous waste of ink in its entirety!"

-0-

"Your Slayership, may I be excused?"

Said Warrior– worthy _chap_!

"I don't much care for Ani-may,

I'd rather have…passionate sex with Fighter, now I'm finally back from Hong Kong!

(To which Fighter pouted "Hmph, idiot!" before dragging him offstage by his belt to general rejoicing)

-0-

The party then began to sing,

And shook the guildhouse _walls_,

"Merry Christmas!" cried out Tiny Tim,

And the Wizard answered… "Hang on, you're from a different story, that wasn't a load of…_and_ we already used this rhyme in the second verse!"

-0-

The Slayer stood on the burning deck,

Playing a game of _cricket._

A ball rolled up his trouser leg,

And stumped his _middle wicket_!

-0-

The Slayer stood on the burning deck,

His real name's Ahab _Trollocks_.

For the very last time, I regard this show,

As…not really my cup of tea _at all_!

-0-

Then it was Christmas day in the harem!

With the eunuchs caged up _there_.

GOBLIN EUNUCHS, truth to tell,

Bemoaning their lot _unfair_!

-0-

Then the Sultan–LELOUCH LAMPEROUGE!

Strode through his marble _halls_,

He cried, "What do you want for Christmas, boys?"

Screamed the goblin eunuchs, "_BALLS_!"

-0-

The Sultan, he was most displeased,

And swore, "If you're not _good_,

"I'll be a lousy rotter then,

"And stop your Christmas _pud_!"

-0-

"If FIGHTER isn't coming back,"

Cried one,_ still_ bold as _brass_,

"Take your pud, _and_ Goblinslayer's sword,

"And shove them up…etc etc."


	2. A version of the Original Poem

It was Christmas day in the workhouse,

The paupers were full of _cheer_.

Their faces were filled with gladness,

Their bellies were filled with _beer_.

-0-

In came the Workhouse Master,

As he strode through the draughty _halls_,

He shouted, "Merry Christmas!"

And the paupers answered...by heaving half a brick at him!

-0-

The Master, he was sore outraged,

And swore "If you're not _good_,

"I'll be a lousy rotter then,

And stop your Christmas _pud_!"

-0-

Up spoke the eldest pauper,

In a voice as bold as _brass_,

"You can take your Christmas pudding,

"And stick it...down the other end of the table!"

-0-

The Workhouse Master then arose,

And prepared to carve the _duck_.

He said, "Who wants the parson's nose?"

And paupers answered… "Have it yourself, Sir!"

-0-

The Master rose to make a speech,

But just before he _started_,

The Mistress, who was fifteen stone,

Gave three loud cheers...and nearly choked herself!

-0-

The Workhouse Mistress then began,

To hand out Christmas par_-cels_,

The paupers tore the wrappings off,

And began to wipe…their eyes, which were full of tears.

-0-

The Vicar bought his bible,

And read out little _bits_.

Said one old woman, near the back,

"That man gets on…very well with everybody!"

-0-

A steaming bowl of white bread sauce,

Was handed round to _some_.

An aged gourmet called aloud,

"This bread sauce tastes like…it was made by a Continental chef!"

-0-

Mince pie with custard was the next,

And all received a _bit_.

A pauper mused, "This pie's not bad,

"But the custard tastes…like the bread sauce from the last verse!"

-0-

All of the party then began,

To pull their Christmas _crackers_,

One pauper held his too low down,

And blew off both his…own paper hat, and the hat of the man behind him!

-0-

"This pudding," said the Master,

"Is solid, hard and _thick_.

"How am I going to I cut it?"

And a man called… "Use your penknife, Sir, the one with the pearl handle!"

-0-

The Mistress, dishing out the food,

Spilt custard down her _front_.

She said, "Aren't I a silly billy?"

And they said, "You look…a picture as always, Ma'am!"

-0-

The Mistress asked the Vicar,

To entertain his _flock_,

He asked, "What shall I show you?"

And they shouted back…"Some of those humorous conjuring tricks you do, just like the Vicar in _Straw Dogs_ while Dustin Hoffman's wife is having traumatic rape flashbacks in the audience!"

(_Okay, I added that bit in_)

-0-

"Your reverence, may I be excused?"

Said one benign old _chap_,

"I don't much care for magic tricks,

I'd rather have…a nice sing-song around the fire!"

-0-

The party then began to sing,

And shook the workhouse _walls_,

"Merry Christmas!" cried the Master,

And the paupers answered… "Best of luck to you too, Sir!"


	3. The Slayer's Carol

_A/N: Charles Dickens (better than Goblin Slayer), seven years before he wrote 'A Christmas Carol' gave the story of a very wicked undertaker who was abducted by goblins on Christmas eve, and learnt a thing or two about the festive season. Here is Goblin Slayer's version, just in time for Festivus; I've got a lot of problems with this scrap metal peddler and Doom rip-off, which he's going to hear about!_

* * *

One dark and frosty Solstice evening, Goblin Slayer was heading out to slay some goblins. His companions were partying hard enough to blow their paper hats off back at the guildhall, but goblin-slaying was what he did. He was alone, but he would most certainly live and conquer, because of who he was and the world he lived in. The world of darkness and filth he moved through so readily, it might as well have been made for him. Fighting goblins was all he did; an ordinary man might have been driven insane by the sheer tedium.

A party of young adventurers passed him in the forest, travelling the other way. A chattering, bright-eyed young swordsman, an attractive young wizard with a superior manner. A dark haired martial artist with broad forearms and a ready smile. Goblin Slayer's steel visage expressed nothing, but he perceived their earnest courage. Appreciated its contrast with the terror of the monsters' lair, that laughed at dreams and heroes.

He would follow them, and see if any were left alive to save, once he had exterminated the goblin nest on the other side of the wood. The unbending, unthinking fiery soul-steel that drove him to hack, slay and wipe out every goblin, one devil at a time, year upon year, made it unthinkable for him to turn aside from any mission he had begun. Unthinkable as a world without monsters, or where the slaughter and ruin of innocents was not an unremarkable commonplace.

In a clearing up ahead, for example, a gaggle of goblins was doing something with a stray peasant woman that doesn't need to be mentioned. A few human woodcutters were stacking cut-offs across the grove, paying no attention at all to this everyday event. The woman would be reduced to traumatised catatonia even if they saved her, as all rape victims invariably were, and be no more than a burden on the parish. Goblin Slayer thought it slightly odder, as he bore down on the cackling goblins like an armoured man with a sword, that there wasn't a trace of ripped clothing around the woman's naked body, which was unusually slim and gravure-idolish for a frontier girl.

But he'd barely realised that he couldn't name the colour of the woman's hair, before woman, woodcutters and goblins vanished. A long-fingered hand snaked round his neck, and its owner sank with Goblin Slayer into the depths of the earth like smoke.

With one solution to all problems, Goblin Slayer swung his sword with all skill and fury, the instant he could. His laughing abductor skipped backward across the vast cavern where their journey had ended, waggling a finger merrily.

"All who trust in iron and _blood_, cannot and will not come to _good_. For blood is dirt and iron does _rust_, as thud-and-blunder heroes _must_!"

The Prince of Goblins, whisp-bearded and hairy-limbed, was crazily attired for the season in numerous sashes and a sugarloaf hat. He had shamelessly affected some curly toed shoes, festooned himself with shiny medallions and holed elf-stones in the goblincore style (what else?) and was grinning such a grin as even a goblin could only conjure up with the aid of four world-conquering English writers. Five, indeed, since he had just transfigured the Slayer's sword into a dead chicken.

"Merry Solstice, my good Slayer of those witless Germano-Cornish earthworms you call goblins!" Dancing back in, the Merry Wanderer rapped his knuckles on an immobile breastplate, "Methinks it rings quite vast, but hollow."

Goblin Slayer had swiftly considered and rejected the idea of forcing the dead chicken down this goblin's throat. However the monster had learnt such wizardry, he could sense its limitless power. Indefatigable, he would watch and wait for a chance to kill it. So, he observed the army of familiar hairless goblins dashing about the cavern playing at leapfrog, and three young women pleasantly chatting over teacups in princess dresses. He could somehow sense they had not been recovered from rape, but had never _been _harmed at all, such was this goblin's power over the past, present and future. If the bloody-minded persistence that passed for his heroism had been capable of despair, he might have guessed that he was trapped in a story not of his making, as securely as he had ever been.

"At this most magical time of year," The Eternal Goblin trilled on, conjuring two goblets of liquid fire and draining both himself, "The tradition is extant of showing some gloomy, friendless fellow how much occasion for laughter and generosity has been present under his nose. As sometime jester to King Oberon, and the oldest living creature in the Isles called British, such traditions are much to this _Goodfellow's_ liking."

"You may steal my mind with magic, goblin, but my hatred itself will snuff your life. Change me into a hundred shapes, blast me into a thousand pieces, and every one of them will fly at your throat. I _will_ kill you, goblin."

Rough and cracked from underuse, the Slayer's voice was quiet, but rang like a gong with imperviousness. The Eternal Goblin grinned more majestically than before and waved a great cloud of bluish smoke up to the roof of the cavern.

"Let us begin at the beginning, with the past."

The image rose up of the Goblin Slayer's sister, before her death at the claws of goblins, singing as she carried well-water through a golden cornfield. The Goblin of Pook's Hill twinkled at her like a slightly-randy-but-mostly-paternal old uncle. The Slayer would have choked him, but a flick of long fingers threw him back.

"Slaughter. Violation. _Torture_. Whatever your power, all your kind understand–!"

His voice faded. The pictures in the smoke were his sister's life, not her death. Preparing everyday meals, scolding or playing with a small silver-haired boy. Wringing the Solstice turkey's neck as easily as a stray goblin's. With both feet off the ground, shagging the blacksmith's son against the back wall of the woodshed, to the Eternal Goblin's leering delight, and Goblin Slayer's visceral disgust.

Tears still almost came to his eyes, to see his strong, lost sister again. But her end was all that mattered, and the goblin would surely soon show…

"Why would I bother with such a commonplace as your family's death? Why show you your sister's fate, when she is the only woman you ever see? What does your sister matter, Ahab Grey, when you never even knew her name?"

The Slayer, Ahab Grey, could not think of his sister's name. Was magic stealing his mind already–?

"I hereby name her–Lavinia 'Dark and Tragic Backstory' Grey! Lavinia, by the by, was a maiden killed by her noble father for being raped, with no hands, no tongue, no voice! Your sister's death was a tragedy, _before_ it was transformed by you into a most hackneyed excuse for mindless slaughter! Every day you slay goblins, while women suffer, defiles your sister's memory more and more!"

"WHAT ELSE COULD I DO!"

"Smite your head against the wall? Cure your headache by smiting harder and dashing out what brains you still have! Or, on your other branch…"

The Eternal Goblin gestured at the smoke again. Now it showed a hugely muscled man in black armour, and a dark-skinned woman with child-like eyes. The woman had lost her mind to rape, death and betrayal. The man had put her out of his sight, with his shame, for years of slaughter. But he had slowly learnt to reopen his heart and fought years more for the woman's salvation. For their love, for her strength; justice for the most terrible betrayal, won with all the love and strength his bitterly wounded heart could bring.

Goblin Slayer had done nothing with his pain but slay goblins. He had nothing else to offer any broken victim, except the mask of iron he faced their despair with. As their faces tortured him with memories of his sister; as their whispers of love and bedrooms woke nothing in him but a child's terror at a sister's rape.

The Merry Wanderer demonstrated this by summoning a gorgeous naked elf to embrace the Slayer, who flinched from her in cold disgust. She recoiled from him, as even any rationally constructed dream woman would have; the goblin cackled, briefly fondled the elf, and dismissed her.

"…what could I have done for my sister? She is DEAD!"

The voice was raw and savage, the terror of goblin kings, but the Merry Wanderer only laughed on, clapping his hands.

"And goblins will never die! They will always breed and rape, however great and big the sword of a single Slaying Sisyphus! Who never worked to make rulers or villagers perceive the green peril, to establish local defence leagues, or give the Guild a much needed kick up the backside–not with one tenth of the effort your boasted hate pours into useless dungeoneering! Subtle and complex problems require subtle and cunning plans of solution–but your obscene tragedy sees nothing more subtle than monster gang rape and death, with no end or solution at all! It is said you defy the dice of the gods, but in true, forsooth, you will always serve the _viewers_–I mean the gods!–with exactly the bloody, sexy rubbish they desire! Mayhaps you do not grasp the joke, but I assure you, I do! MWAHAAAAAA, HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Now the Slayer knew, because the goblin wasn't a bloody smear on the ground, that he was kept by magic from stirring hand or foot. He could only spit out the question; what was the point of this?

"This is no real torture. You make no threats. You aren't trying to break me or even change my views. Ye gods…what do you want?"

"To break the unbreakable tin can? Scarcely. A little torture may be in order, though. I walked the green hills of England, many years before the Jews ever came–but this Festivus, I have some complaints against you that will be heard!"

A hefty metal pole duly appeared, and independently started whacking Goblin Slayer all over his body. His armour gave no more defence than sheets of paper, as the Goblin of Pook's Hill brought up more images in the smoke, to present the present.

The im,ages were like nothing the Goblin Slayer had imagined. An overgrown metropolis, filled with adventurers transported from another world. A white-cloaked, bespectacled young man whose plans destroyed injustice and uncertainty in this new world–who ensured that not even a single brave young adventurer suffered death. A world of superhumans, where heroes studied an exacting course for years, under the supervision of the strongest, before their first simple mission–because losing a unique hero on their first outing would've been as stupid as tragic.

"Our world is different. More primitive. Many causes prevent–"

"Primitive, indeed, as only cruelty and wilful ignorance could make! Tell me what you are, if not part of the solution? And I swear by Titania's big toe, you are not."

The picture changed to show a blonde priestess, Alison Blanche, serving soup to a hollow-eyed woman in a temple. With few funds to even provide these poor souls with food and clothes, worry lined Alison's own blue eyes–but the undimmed light of compassion shone from them, softer but more heartening than any anachronistic or imaginary red helmet-laser.

People of any influence just didn't seem to see that monsters which only bred by raping humans were an incredibly preventable problem. Ignoring the burnt villages and survivor testimonies unless they were piled up and thrown in their faces, they seemed unwilling to admit there was a goblin problem, or a human one, at all. Alison knew she would have to go dungeoneering again, if no more donations came in soon. She hated the violence and filth of adventuring, as much as her kindness longed to treat the sick and comfort the broken every day of her life. Of course, there were female fighters who loved adventure and monster slaying, with a martial-arts masters for fathers, and kicks that could neck-snap a hob or whack a goblin's head off. But somehow these swordmaidens and spearwomen, who might have thrown fighting men into the shade, all seemed to meet horrible fates, so that unthreatening little casters or archers had go out, untrained of course, and supply the greenskins with more wombs for their spawn. Alison prayed every night that the madness would end one day, that something would change…

"…and mayhaps, her prayer was heard, though not by I. I act by command, most often, but always with my own little touches. I think it's past time we bring this madness to a most terminatory end, with the future."

-0-

"…well, that was tougher than I expected."

Fighter, Susan Lei, and Wizard, Ilsa Tresckow, nodded firmly. All three of them had minor wounds; even Warrior, Harry Fawkes, was smiling less than before, after all they'd done and seen. But they had killed the goblins, burnt down the hob, kicked the shaman to death and rescued the kidnapped women. They had survived their first quest. They couldn't help smiling.

"Without the tactical advice of that little old man we met on the way–" Ilsa glanced towards the horizon, lost in thought, "–the probability of our deaths would have been more than negligible. He almost looked like a goblin himself."

"Didn't wizard school teach you about Bare Wolf the Dragonslayer? How the All-Father disguised himself as an old man, to tell him how to avoid the dragon's poisoned blood?" Harry made the holy double-raven sign on his chest, grinning with fresh, unstoppable passion, "As legendary heroes, we can expect strange old men, runaway princesses, even the aid of the gods themselves, as we fight back the demons and darkness from their world of light!"

"Great speech. I suppose if the gods made Harry Fawkes, and dumb milkmaids for you to snog, you think they gave the world everything it needs." Harry flushed a bit at Susan's sharp comments, "I'm more worried about the parties that don't get a magical old man. The Guild sent us out, three rookies, no advice or support, for something more dangerous than we knew, that could've killed us before our legend even begun. How many rookies run into an ambush, or _two_ hobs, or just mess up?"

"We'll ask them about it when we get back. We'll keep on asking, until they make changes." The endless conviction in Harry's eyes had saved his life, when he'd lost his sword in a melee; Susan blessed it and loved it as he spoke.

"Instead of a dragon," Ilsa muttered, "You mean to oppose an army of dragonslayers?"

"For justice and sanity–yes."

Susan smiled at Harry's back, heart singing. The three adventurers tramped back along the path to the Guild, towards the rising sun.

It turned out that their Guild-appointed mentor was waiting for them in the foyer–a tough, attractive Spearwoman, Brigid Monahan by name. As a woman, of course, she wouldn't even have been permitted to head into a den of monsters except that even the humanoid monsters reproduced by spores. Rape was biologically impossible.

Something seemed odd for a minute, but no more than that. It was Solstice, the three Rookies had a great deal to celebrate with their beloved leader, and Goblin Slayer did not exist. The world still had a great many problems, but getting rid of a grief-crazed racist, whose heroism had required it to conform to his own sexy, genocidal and idiotic fantasy, had solved a surprising number of them.

-0-

The Slayer thought very little of a future without goblin rape. He could imagine it discouraging goblin extermination. Black and blue from the stick, but rendered impervious by his usual monomania, he met the Prince of Goblins' grin with a spasmodic twitch of his lips.

"…aren't I supposed to say that I'm not the man I was? That I know the real meaning of Solstice now, that I have done a single thing to deserve this, before you kill me? I would welcome the release of death, but you will never change me, not with a century of torture, and I swear, somehow, I will kill you…"

"Kipling, Gaiman and Shakespeare, my dear Ahab. You scarcely exist, compared to me. And what would the Goblin Slayer be, if he did not slay goblins? What is he, to be defined by such a straw? I come to bury you, my Ahab, not to praise you."

The Slayer's visor suddenly clanged up–and the Merry Wanderer's hairy face was there, mugging and laughing. Within the armour of the Goblin Slayer was nothing. His chicken-sword plopped to the floor and scuttled off. Perhaps the Slayer had become the armour, that had cut off his life like a steel bubble from humans, monsters and real dragonslaying heroes. Since his tragic birth, he had allowed himself to feel nothing but pain and death–but now he did not even feel cold steel or think of anything at all.

The Eternal Goblin conjured another goblet of fire and made a toast with it. Facing away from the empty suit of armour, to the watchers beyond the darkness; he had been casually doing this since 1595.

"If we shadows have _offended_, think but this and all is _mended_. Think on this weak and idle _theme_, it did but happen in a _dream_. No man am I, no man that tragic is, with nothing shall be _pleased_, till he be _eased_, with being nothing. 'Else the Puck a liar _call_–goodnight, and joy be with you all!"


End file.
